


And Neither Have I Wings

by cathalin



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-08
Updated: 2008-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathalin/pseuds/cathalin





	And Neither Have I Wings

The melancholy strains of Pethani music wafted gently through the smoke-scented evening air. Hardened marines developed wistful looks; cynical scientists grew dreamy. These days, the Daedalus came only about three times a year, and the wormhole was never activated for contact with Earth. Precious resources couldn’t be spent on something as luxurious as communication; endless space separated the ‘Lanteans from their loved ones on Earth.

Once full dark descended and the harvest of mutha-plant had to stop for the night, the ‘Lanteans drifted, one or two at a time, to the Pethani singing-circle. Sparks from the fire crackled into the chill air and flasks of mirri-drink circulated, warming people’s bodies and cracking open hearts just a little.

“What’s this song about?” John asked Teyla quietly, hearing in it the soaring feel of flight.

“It’s a love song,” Teyla murmured back, eyes filled with remembrance, cuddling her infant son to her chest.

“It sounds like – flying?” John said, ducking his head a little, inexplicably shy.

“That as well,” Teyla said. “But not in the air.”

“Obviously,” Rodney snorted softly from where he’d suddenly appeared, crouching next to John. “Pre-flight culture; Anthropology 101.”

“Boats,” Teyla said softly. “Or, rather, the absence of boats with which to cross the large water, to join the beloved.”

“Most human cultures have a song like that,” Rodney murmured as he sat down next to John on the finely-woven blanket Teyla had borrowed from a native.

“Hey!” John said as Rodney shoved him over. “I was here first.”

“This is a non-proprietary, non-hierachical society,” Rodney whispered. “Concepts like ‘first’ have no meaning.”

John shoved back at him with his hip. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a weapon.”

Rodney rolled his eyes and scooted approximately one-half inch towards the other side of the blanket.

For a few moments, they listened in silence as the melody was joined by a gentle harmony, weaving under and through the soaring voice with a thread of longing. After a while, the singers stopped, and a buzz of quiet conversations started up.

Next to him, Rodney started humming a melody that John suddenly remembered. His mother, dark-haired and gentle, had sung this to him, stroking his head when he’d had nightmares. The shock of memory, dredged up like that across the years, made him go up on an elbow and watch Rodney’s face. Rodney’s eyes were closed, and he seemed unaware he was humming at all or that those around them had grown silent. The humming turned to actual singing, soft and low, a gentle sweet tenor, and John’s heart twisted in his chest. Rodney’s eyelashes were long and sweeping, and his mouth was for once not twisted into a sarcastic shape.

Another ‘Lantean nearby joined in with a clear alto, and soon voices rose from all around the fire. Rodney stopped singing and just lay there, forehead wrinkled with listening or something he was thinking.

When his eyes opened he was looking straight at John. John thought, _oh shit_ but Rodney had already seen, clearly he had already _seen_ ; it was obvious from the open and assessing expression on his face. So John decided, in one of those moments that had gotten him exiled to Antarctica, _fuck it_ , and let himself keep looking the way he wanted to look at Rodney. He told himself it was just for a moment, a moment they could easily pass off as induced by firelight and mirri-liquor and nostalgia.

“You - ” Rodney asked, voice husky, forehead crinkles visible in the orange fire-glow.

John swallowed. His throat hurt. “Yeah.” He forced himself to not look away. “You don’t - .” John choked on his own words.

Rodney breathed, “The water. It’s been wide, and I haven’t thought I could - .”

“Cross over, you want to - ”

“Yes,” Rodney breathed, swallowing and tilting his chin. “Can you, _can_ we? ”

John was already leaning down toward Rodney, already had been for a very long time. Something whacked him on the back of his head and he turned to see Teyla’s gentle smile. She’d thrown a blanket over both of them, which some not-yet-completely-insane part of him managed to pull up to cover their faces.

They were inches away inside the dark enclosed space, and John felt breathless, light-headed, drunk on possibility and longing. “Are you - ” he whispered.

“Sure,” Rodney whispered back and brought his hand – his sturdy, strong, competent hand – to curl softly around John’s neck.

All was still, still, still, except for the muted sounds of soft singing through the woven cloth. Then John was leaning the final distance, crossing the wide space between them, leaning in and letting his lips touch; soft, soft, on Rodney’s lips. They hovered there together for a moment, and then Rodney surged up, pulling down on John’s neck, and everything was white heat and tongues and Rodney opening under him so sweetly, like this was what some part of him had been yearning for all this time.

Pulling away was almost impossible, but John did it. Because he could see possibilities now, possibilities he’d never let himself believe in. Maybe he could have this, at least for a while, if they were careful, and the galaxy cooperated.

“Not so wide any more,” Rodney said softly into the dark cocoon of the blanket, stroking his hand softly down John’s graying temple, right before they flipped the blanket off and re-joined the group. No one was looking, and if anyone had seen, they obviously were studiously ignoring it. Around the fire, other couples were quietly moving closer together or drifting off to their tents or huts, with a few, like Teyla, remaining alone by choice.

John lay back and looked at the stars, which shone brightly despite the drifting campfire smoke. “Yeah, not if we both row,” he said softly.

Rodney snorted next to him. “I am so not a rower. If I row, we’re getting stranded halfway across the water.”

John reached out and thwacked him on the leg.

“Ow!” Rodney said. “What was that for?”

John grinned up at the beautiful star-strewn sky. “Metaphor. It’s a metaphor.”

“I know it’s a metaphor, idiot,” Rodney huffed. “I’m not a moron.”

John sat up and brushed grass off his pants legs. He looked down at Rodney, who was obviously trying to fight a huge grin. John smirked down at him and whispered, “Want to row to my tent?”

Rodney hissed, “Be quiet! Idiot!” but his eyes were sparkling. “That I can manage,” he said. “I can do that.” He swallowed and looked away, then looked back at John, face more serious. “I want to do that.”

As John walked to his tent, he heard gentle Perthani and ‘Lantean voices mixed together in simple folk songs from both cultures. The voices drifted with the smoke, wafting melancholy and hope in equal measure through the night.

John felt like he’d been given wings to fly tonight. Wings to fly across the wide water; wings to fly across the silent span of space.

“We both shall row - ” he sang softly to himself, unable and unwilling to continue the verse even in his head. It wasn’t necessary, anyway. He and McKay didn’t really communicate in words. There was no need to start now, he reflected, ducking into his tent and hearing Rodney’s soft but sure footsteps following behind. Some things didn’t need words. All you needed was a boat.


End file.
